


Unauthorized Panic

by draculasdaughter



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, DIY Music, Eliot and Margo own a music venue together, Indie Music, It's called Unauthorized Panic, M/M, Marina and Julia are in radio together, Minneapolis MN, Music Club, Music Venue, Quentin Josh Kady and Penny are in a band together, Todd is a bartender, music industry, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculasdaughter/pseuds/draculasdaughter
Summary: Eliot and Margo own a music venue / club together called "High Profile." They book the best bands in the area, and due to a cancellation, booked "Unauthorized Panic" last minute. Kady's on vocals, Quentin's on bass, Penny's on guitar and Josh is on the drums. It's just a great gig their manager Alice booked them, until Quentin meets Eliot-- the gorgeous owner, and he's suddenly very glad that he chose a life of music over finishing his philosophy degree.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh/Margo Hanson (Eventually maybe), William "Penny" Adiyodi / Quentin Coldwater (Mentioned)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Unauthorized Panic

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially, this fic is me just being nerdy about the indie-punk scene in Minnesota behind the characters of The Magicians. "High Profile" isn't a real place, and neither are the bands that the fictional characters are associated with. Everything else mentioned in this chapter pertaining to the Minneapolis music scene are factual, including the story about Paperhouse (RIP) and the briefly mentioned band Gully Boys. They fucking rock, so look them up. Okay, enjoy!

“You’re onstage in three minutes,” hisses Alice between clenched teeth. She yanks the cigarette from Quentin’s fingers and grinds it beneath her heel. “What the hell are you still doing outside?” 

Her glare alone sets him into motion. 

He books it to huddle backstage with the rest of the band, apologizing along the way to anyone who would listen.

“Oh, shut the hell up,” says Penny with a scowl. 

Quentin apologizes again—under his breath—and shoves his hands in his pockets. 

“The club’s fucking full, guys!” 

Josh bounds down the dim hallway leading to the stage, twirling his drumsticks in his hands dangerously. He swings an arm around Kady. “I can’t believe we’re playing High Profile.” 

Kady shrugs him off and then makes piercing eye contact with each of them in turn. “Alice busted her ass to get us this gig, and so have we. If any of you fuck this up, I’ll cut your dicks off.” 

She is answered with a chorus of nervous mumbling. 

Then, like a light switch, a wide grin spreads across Kady’s face. 

“Great, let’s do this.” She turns and struts down the hallway, flipping her curls off her shoulders and shaking them down her back. They follow, attempting the same enthusiasm in some capacity. 

Quentin’s version is a queasy smile as they take the stage. He hopes the lights are dim enough to mask how nervous he is. He’s practically vibrating with anxiety beneath his t-shirt and flannel, so he keeps his head down, letting his greasy hair fall in a curtain to obscure his features. 

Some people call his stage persona mysterious, but Quentin calls it clinical anxiety and depression. 

Their first song, “Super Nothing” goes pretty well. The bass line is easy, and therefore hard to fuck up— even for him, Quentin thinks. 

After the first song, Kady lets her guitar fall in front of her as she runs her hands through her hair. 

“Minneapolis! How the hell are you?” 

The crowd goes nuts. 

By the volume of the crowd, Josh was right. The club is full. It’s not a small club either. Quentin pushes his hair out of his face and tries to squint past the blinding lights to see into the crowd, but he can only make out huddled movement. Though, he doesn’t need lights to know exactly what’s happening beyond the darkness. Everyone knows what “High Profile” looks like. It’s one of the most coveted venues in the Twin Cities. The interior of the building spans three floors of outrageous balconies, a massive fully-stocked bar hugging the back wall and a large pit of people huddled near the stage. Standing capacity is nearly two thousand. “High Profile” was once a theatre, but they’d recently torn the interior details off the walls and ceiling, leaving the building with a bare, plaster, industrial look that was incredibly fashionable at the moment and a bit unsettling. 

“That’s what we like to hear!” Calls Kady. “We’re Unauthorized Panic.” She glances over her shoulder at Josh, who takes his cue and sets the beat for their next song. 

Kady knows how to put on a show. She says it’s in her genes. Behind her, Josh is perhaps the most enthusiastic drummer on the planet. He’s been known to kick his drum throne over and stand for entire sets, simply because he couldn’t sit remotely still. Penny plays the guitar with a passion typically reserved for the bedroom. In other words— it usually looks like he’s fucking his guitar. 

When he’s sober, Quentin is a pretty typical bassist. He stays in his little area, never moving more than three steps forward or backward. When he’s intoxicated onstage— a rare occurrence these days since Alice’s management reign— he ranges from reinventing the instrument to forgetting to play for entire songs to kissing Penny during a bass solo. 

Tonight, Sober Quentin’s anxiety dissipates only as the set continues. Eventually, he finds himself nodding along to the music and even adding a little extra flair to his bass lines. 

Still, as soon as the second encore song ends, he hustles to leave the stage and goes to the stage door for a smoke. By the time he walks through the door frame, he’s already cupping his hand around a flame at the tip of his cigarette. 

When he looks up, he finds he’s already been beaten to the spot. Leaning with a casual grace against the brick wall of “High Profile” is a tall, lean man with dark curls falling around his face. He regards Quentin with a small smile that sends Quentin into a coughing fit. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be onstage?” Asks the man lowly, smirking. 

“Who’s asking?” Quentin coughs a final time and tries to recover his non-existent cool. 

“The owner of this joint.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes easily. “Uh-huh, and I’m Elton John.” 

The owner of High Profile was, as of a few years ago, a notoriously old fart who didn’t set foot in the building anymore. This guy wasn’t a day over twenty-five and he was ridiculously attractive. 

“Anyway,” says Quentin, “The show’s over.” 

The man gives a careless gaze to his artisanal watch, and shrugs. “So it is.” 

The two smoke silently for a couple minutes, then the stage door opens and a much-calmer Alice steps outside. 

“Q, the band’s signing at the merch table.” She looks over to the other man and smiles her business smile. “Mr. Waugh, thank you for getting us in so last minute.”

“Happy to oblige. I wasn’t sure what to do after Gully Boys cancelled, so your call came just in time.” The man stubs his cigarette butt against the wall with a cool grin. “I’m sure Margo and I would love to have the band back again.” 

Quentin is silent, looking between the two with his jaw agape. 

“Q,” says Alice again, this time with a quiet bite to it, “the band is signing at the merch table.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Quentin stubs out his cigarette, smoked to the filter, and obediently goes to the merch table.

The fans seem pretty appreciative of their performance, thinks Quentin. 

A few of the fans blush and grin as he signs their purchase, delivering awkward compliments like “you have such a pretty Squier” or “I just love listening to you play” or “your bass line in “Ramifications” is so cool.” He smiles and thanks them cluelessly, not thinking for a minute that they might be attracted to him. His mind is elsewhere— Mr. Waugh. 

Once the line has died down, he joins Penny to pack the van. He can’t believe he’d been so clueless as to entirely dismiss the man’s claim to fame. Quentin is almost certain that Alice had briefed them on the entire night on the way here, but of course— he hadn’t been listening. Beyond the stage doors is a locked van and not a sign of Penny. 

He sighs, sets his guitar down and lights a cigarette. 

High above, the moon is barely a sliver in the sky. Quentin squints at it as he smokes, and the anxiety he’s been holding in his chest for the past few days disappears into the night with a long exhale. As much as he loves performing, he’s always found that the best part of the evening is packing the van and going home. 

He hears the stage door open behind him. 

“Took you long enough,” Quentin says, turning around. “I thought you said you were going to pack the—” He falls silent as his gaze meets entirely different and less inherently angry eyes. 

He clears his throat. “Mr. Waugh.” 

“Please, It’s Eliot,” says the man smoothly. 

“Eliot then. Hi.” 

“Hi.” Eliot smiles. “Pardon the strange question, but Is this your first band?” 

“Uh, no. Why?” Quentin stubs out his cigarette and grinds it nervously under his foot. Eliot doesn’t immediately answer, so he continues. “I was in a band before— math rock— we played mostly basements. We weren’t great. But we weren’t awful, for sure—” 

“You were in Coin Toss.” 

“What? Yeah.” Most of their current fans didn’t even know about Coin Toss. At it’s most useful, it was an obscure piece of music trivia. 

“I saw Coin Toss a couple times at the Paperhouse. I lived down the street, so I went to a lot of shows there, you know, before it was shut down.” 

That was a shitty day for everyone. Of course house venues were finite, but Paperhouse was special. A lot of local bands played Paperhouse. That’s where Quentin had met Penny, once upon a time. Coin Toss had opened for Penny’s first band, Mind Slut and they’d hit it off— to say the least. The house was a mess, but no one expected it to be condemned; Paperhouse felt immortal. 

Quentin nods. “So… no offense, but how do you get from the DIY scene to owning this place?” 

“Great question.” Eliot takes his time, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Quentin. They’re fancy— so he takes one. “I didn’t buy High Profile— I didn’t name it either. It’s Margo’s money. I’m just good at what I do, so she convinced me to get involved.” 

“What do you do?” 

Eliot eyes the shorter man for a moment. “I find good bands.” His gaze lingers for a moment, then he looks towards the moon. “Margo and I make money off my stellar music taste and our amazing sense of design and showmanship.” 

Quentin feels himself blushing. “So, who’s Margo?” 

“Picture the most beautiful woman you’ve ever met, and then double it. Or, you could just come to our apartment and meet her yourself.” 

“What? Are you inviting me to your apartment?” 

“If you’re interested.” Eliot stubs out his cigarette. “And I’m not going to assume that you are— but if you want to come by and have a drink or two, I’ll give you my address.” 

It’s embarrassing how quickly Quentin whips out his phone. Eliot, on the other hand, is smooth as fuck. “Text me and give me some level of warning before you arrive, will you? I’m rarely home these days and I’d hate to miss you.” 

Eliot hands the phone back with a smile. “I have to head back in, check to make sure the venue hasn’t burned down.” He cards his fingers through his hair as he leaves. 

Quentin is left outside with his phone and a fancy cigarette quickly burning down to the filter. He wonders if it’s worth telling his bandmates about— and if they’d even believe him.


End file.
